


He Could Only Guess at the Sounds From the Old Books

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Gods, M/M, Oral Sex, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Ritual Sex, Rituals, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And what was the very last thing, the most recent thing, written about Sherlock?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Could Only Guess at the Sounds From the Old Books

This is a fill for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=90047254#t90047254) on the kinkmeme. OP asked for God!Sherlock.

 

1.

John’s skin was tingling. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. It had been years since he’d last heard that name spoken by another person. Spilling from his own lips, yes, written in archaic scripts, yes. But the last time he’d heard the name come from someone else’s mouth, it was in a Religious Studies course at university, twenty years previously.

“I’m sorry,” John turned back to Mike Stamford as the lab door clicked shut. “Did he just say his name was Sherlock?”

“Yeah. Why, do you know someone else named Sherlock?”

“No. _Nobody_ does. Nobody is named Sherlock.”

The invocation of the name three times in a row had John’s blood singing in his veins. He excused himself from Mike’s presence; he felt the urge to return to his bedsit and be alone. This new prospect of having a permanent residence, a place to set up all his devotional materials, was exciting. But for now he wished to unpack and handle some of them immediately.

John took the tube from Blackfriars. He replayed the entire meeting in his mind, those details of his life that Sherlock -- _oh, SherlockSherlockSherlock_ \-- had immediately identified. He wondered if the man’s parents had had any idea, when they’d named their son, how accurate, how prophetic that appellation would be.

Likely not. Parents these days gave their kids all sorts of trendy, cool-sounding, “spiritual” names whose true meanings they had no clue about. The Holmes’ had probably just been ahead of the curve.

 

 

2.

Sherlock lived up to his name once again in the cab on the way to Brixton, where he regaled John with a litany of “deductions,” gleaning John’s family drama through minute details of his second-hand mobile. Some people might assume that a particularly intelligent human could be capable of discerning those things, making those leaps of logic.

But John was a true believer. No, a True Believer, with a capital T and a capital B. He was convinced that Sherlock was imbued with the power to channel his namesake. It could not have been a coincidence.

 

 

3.

John said nothing to Sherlock about this. He didn’t want to be the 3,756th person to draw attention to such an awkward name. “Did you know that the ancient Sukkadians worshipped an all-seeing _blah blah blah_ …”

But, true to form, Sherlock soon zeroed in on and exposed John’s faith. He had let John alone for two hours to make phone calls, set up a land line, fill in a change-of-address form, and make lunch, but as soon as John went upstairs to do some unpacking, Sherlock traipsed in, walked right up to the cardboard box sitting solitary on the bare mattress, and said, “What’s this?”

The particular box that had drawn Sherlock’s attention was labeled “○ < **∩** ┬ ≈” in a smaller, more self-conscious hand then that adorning the other boxes (“BOOKS,” “CLOTHES”).

John’s attempt to dive between Sherlock and his quarry was in vain; Sherlock was already pulling open the flaps and examining the contents. He took out a clay figure, hardly bigger than his own thumb. It had once been intricately carved, but time -- a lot of time -- had dulled most of the detail. Sherlock pinched it between thumb and forefinger and held it up to examine it.

“Please be careful with that,” John whinged.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said. “Four thousand years old? Forty-five hundred?”

“Please, I’m not supposed to have that, it’s just I have a friend at the Ashmolean. You won’t tell anyone?”

Sherlock replaced the figure in its wrapping in the box. “Your secret is safe with me.” Next, he took up a packet of incense sticks. Without needing to open the packet, he said, “Juniper?”

“It’s, er, used for divination. The scent is supposed to be pleasing to--”

“You’re not going to make the whole flat stink of this, are you?”

John took the packet from Sherlock’s hand and stuck it back in the box. “No, of course not.” He put one hand on his hip and rubbed the back of his neck with the other, looking at the floor. “It’s only used on…special occasions.”

“Enkylos.”

“Yeah, Enk--you know about Enkylos?”

“I read a lot.” Sherlock waved the question away and departed unceremoniously.

Well, if Sherlock knew about Enkylos, then there was definitely no need to point out the existence of his namesake.

 

 

4.

John came downstairs once more that evening, to retrieve something from the pocket of his coat, hanging on the peg. Sherlock was at the table in the sitting room, tapping away at his laptop. They exchanged no words.

In the morning, when John came down for breakfast, Sherlock was in the same chair, in the same dressing gown, reading a newspaper now. Something told John that Sherlock had been there all night. In their admittedly short acquaintance, John had found no evidence that his flatmate required food or sleep.

John munched on a piece of toast and picked up a section of the paper which Sherlock had discarded. But before he could begin to read it, Sherlock said conversationally, “So you’re one of those nutters that worship dead gods.”

“Reckon it must seem quite idiotic to you,” John said, clearing his throat. “The sceptic’s sceptic.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, the only higher power you believe in is yourself.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “That’s one way of phrasing it.”

“Well, ‘nutter who worships dead gods’ is only one way of phrasing my faith. I’ll thank you to limit your comments.”

“I assure you, you won’t hear a peep of criticism from me.” Sherlock lifted the paper higher, concealing his face entirely.

 

 

5.

When John had moved from his parents’ house to the dormitories of King’s College, he acquired his first altar. It was a modest affair, as there was so little space in his tiny shared room. As he grew older, acquired a little flat of his own, and made a bit of money, he added onto the original structure: to begin with, an extra shelf with a divot to hold the idol he had acquired, and also some supplementary jasmine. He bought a nicer table upon which to place the altar, with a cupboard underneath to store additional accessories, like the little bell which was to be rung when the prayer ritual began, and also the clay offering bowl and the pot of oil (benzoin, frankincense, myrrh, naroli). When he was deployed, he took with him what components he was allowed and stored the rest with trusted people. Now that it seemed he was settling into Baker Street for the long term, he purchased additional pieces; a more sturdy incense holder for the Enkylos ceremony, more elaborate candles, and two rings, riveted to the sides of the original altarpiece, in which flower-pots would sit more stably than they would on the narrow shelf.

Owing to his unpredictable lifestyle, John could not perform the most basic rituals at the same time each day, and sometimes an investigation or stake-out unexpectedly kept him away from the altar for extended periods of time. John could only hope that, being as he was The All-Seeing, Sherlock (that is, the one that did not live with him in the flat) would understand that it was not his fault and he was doing his best to observe the ways of the faithful. When he was at home and things were quiet in the flat, he lingered in front of the altar and performed each step of each ceremony with particular attention to detail.

Freshly showered and pajama-clad, he knelt on the prayer rug and lit the six candles, one for each of the five senses and a sixth for Sherlock’s all-seeing eye. Next, he opened the little cupboard, taking out the oil and the clay bowl. He placed the bowl before him, so that it nearly, but didn’t, touch his knees. He opened the pot and dipped one finger in, anointing first himself, a dab on the forehead and neck, a cleansing ritual but also an effort to make his scent more pleasing to his god. Then, after a more generous dip of two fingers, he spread a thin layer of the oil all around the inside of the bowl, just enough to provide adhesion. Next, he took up his little box of dried jasmine petals, sprinkling them carefully into the bowl so that they covered the surface in a single layer.

In one smooth motion, he slid the bowl closer to the altar and leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched the floor. “∆ ∙ ∙ ═ ≈ └ ║ ∙○ ≈,” he muttered. 

Suddenly, John felt a presence behind him, as though someone were now in the room. But he stayed still, because the door had not opened; he hadn’t heard any noise. It was not possible for someone to have been there with him.

He continued to chant: “∆ ∙ ∙ ═ ≈ └ ║ ∙○ ≈ … ∆ ∙ ∙ ═ ≈ └ ║ ∙○ ≈  … ∆ ∙ ∙ ═ ≈ └ ║ ∙○ ≈ …”

Then, for the first time ever, John heard a reply: “≈ ∙ ┼ − ∆ ┌ └ **∩** ┴.”

His eyes were wide open now, and though he had not the courage to turn round, he looked up and caught sight of Sherlock’s shadow cast over the altar. Which was not even possible, as the candles on the altar were the only light source…

Then a warm presence, warm bordering on hot, was upon him, draping itself over him, starting from the base of his spine and working its way up. Sherlock’s chin rested on his shoulder. And then John heard it -- not in his ear, where he would have expected to hear it, accompanied by Sherlock’s breath, but rather in his head:

“ _John_. ∆ ┼ ○ ≈ **∩** ∙ ○ _John_.” A chorus of distant, muffled consonants swirled around Sherlock’s clear voice.

Startled, John said aloud, in English, “Yes. Yes I am. Always.”

“≈└ **∩** ┴ ∙ ∆ ≡ …?”

“Yes. Oh yes, _please_.”

Sherlock snaked one arm around John’s chest, and with the other hand grabbed John’s chin and hauled him up until he was sitting straight-backed…then a bit further. He tilted John’s head back, so that he might take a kiss from him. Faced with any other creature, such an attack would provoke a devastating retaliation from John; but here he relaxed into Sherlock’s grip, and let himself be bent backwards. If there was any question about how John felt about Sherlock’s intrusion into his ritual, it was answered moments later, when his erection popped out of the fly of his pajamas.

Regarding this as though it were an entirely anticipated result, Sherlock’s uncurled his arm and reached down to stroke John’s prick, his other hand still holding John’s head in place, so that he could not resist Sherlock’s taking as much time as he wanted to taste John’s mouth.

“Is this a regular feature of your devotions?” Sherlock murmurred, giving John’s prick a little squeeze.

John was too shocked to do anything but blurt out the truth. “Only sometimes.”

With his long arms, Sherlock had no difficulty holding onto such distant parts of John, manipulating them according to his whims. John whimpered in his awe and confusion. Every tug on his prick felt like Sherlock was trying to coax something out of him; that is, something more than the obvious. Whatever it was, he wanted to give it. John had always been prepared to give anything Sherlock asked for. He arched himself harder into Sherlock’s grip.

Sherlock continued to kiss him ferociously and work his cock, showing no signs of fatigue in either activity, until John’s come shot out in big shuddering pulses and landed in the offering bowl.

“Good, John,” Sherlock murmured into John’s mouth. “You did very well.”

Sherlock released John and got to his feet. The tension broken, John heaved a sigh of relief, and when he turned to see what was happening next, he found Sherlock’s erect penis precisely at eye level.

Was it really as simple as that? Could you just fellate a god?

Apparently, you could. The moment John’s jaw dropped in bafflement, Sherlock guided himself inside. He partook of John’s mouth freely, but never gagged him or caused him discomfort. He gave John plenty of opportunities to pull back far enough to play around the glans and catch his breath. John had never done this before, but the regular, repetitive motions and the desire to please came very naturally to him. He had spent his whole life worshipping Sherlock; this was just one more way to do it. His tongue darted out to gather the fluid at the tip, to taste Sherlock’s essence. It was like ambrosia to him, and he continued lapping eagerly at it to get more, until Sherlock placed a hand on John’s head and said, “Enough.”

“But--”

“Believe me, you shall receive it.” By stepping away and gesturing, Sherlock indicated that he wanted John to get into the bed with him.

John complied, but slowly, so that he had time to ask, “Could you perhaps at this point explain to me _what the hell is going on?_ ”

Smiling enigmatically, Sherlock reclined on the bed and patted the empty space next to him. “What’s not to understand?”

“I mean…This isn’t some elaborate ritual to prepare me as a human sacrifice, is it?”

“Dear me, no. We don’t engage in human sacrifice -- we get people to engage in it for us.” Sherlock laughed at John’s suspicion, but when his joke failed to lighten John’s expression, he changed his tone. “Did you think that the gods do not also desire pleasure?”

“It’s the sort of thing I associated more with Keb-ki.”

“ _Ugh._ Keb-ki. If your ancestors knew the truth, they would have dubbed him the God of Tedium. How dreadfully boring it must be, to feel the need to get a leg over every single being you encounter.”

“Alright, so if that’s not your style, then what are you doing here?”

“We all sometimes like to reward our devoted followers,” Sherlock said mildly.

“But I’m…I mean, you know I am devoted to you, but you can’t have deemed me the most worthy.”

“John, John, John. You’ve been worshipping me your entire life, and yet you still have only the tiniest understanding.”

With an uncharacteristic cringe, John muttered,“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve done fine. It may be that you yourself have never felt luminous, but as a conductor of _my_ light you are supreme.”

“But how are you…you? I mean, I find it a bit confusing that you’re approaching me now, in this place, in a mortal body. As comparatively ethereal as that particular mortal body might be.”

“Been keeping up on the whereabouts of Sherlock the All-Seeing?”

“What’s to keep up on?” John said, mocking Sherlock’s earlier tone. “Nothing new has appeared in mainstream literature in three thousand years. And everything written in the apocrypha after that has pretty much just been reinterpretations of the ancient texts.”

“Mm hmm. And what was the very last thing, the most recent thing, written about Sherlock?”

“That he was…exiled.”

Sherlock smiled, as though that settled all questions. “By the way, I’ve been wanting to tell you this for years. It’s pronounced “∆ ∙ ≡ ≈.”

“∆ ∙ ∙ ═ ≈ .” John tried to imitate him and failed.

“∆ ∙ ≡ ≈,” Sherlock repeated.

“∆ ∙ ∙ ═ ≈.”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. Your heart is in the right place about it. Now, if you would be so kind as to bring that oil with you when you come to bed.”

John placed the pot of oil in Sherlock’s open palm as he sat himself down. Sherlock immediately corrected John’s position, guiding him to lie flat on his back. Demonstrating superhuman dexterity, Sherlock divested John of his clothing in two smooth motions, then straddled him, pot of oil in hand.

John had been on the receiving end of his share of back massages, and certainly some of those subsequently became _front_ massages…but he’d never been with someone who began with the front bit. Admittedly, at this point, John couldn’t rely on any assumptions. Perhaps that was just how gods operated.

The incongruity became less of a concern the more Sherlock touched him. He found himself relaxing deeply, in a way that no ordinary touch could induce. Having his entire body methodically oiled by another male was not the sort of thing he normally did to unwind. But he couldn’t even think of that, not with what was happening right now. Sherlock never asked, “Would you like to do this? What feels good to you? Are you enjoying that?” He needed no guidance to manipulate John’s body in just the right way, in ways even John did not know he wanted until they happened. It was a tremendous turn-on, the way Sherlock took charge of his body, rearranging John’s limbs to get at whatever spot he wished to caress, prod, stroke, and rub oil into. He would just lift John’s leg until his ankle rested on Sherlock’s shoulder, so that Sherlock might press his fingers deeply into John’s hamstrings, letting the touch skim close to the most intimate parts of him.

John’s whole body felt heavy and floaty at the same time. At first John had wondered if Sherlock was eventually going to rub his back as well; now he didn’t feel he had the wherewithal to turn over so that could even happen. But Sherlock didn’t ask it of him.

When every exposed inch of flesh below his collarbones was shiny with oil, Sherlock stretched himself out atop John and placed delicate kisses on his mouth and neck.

Gathering his last threads of coherent thought, John said, “Why did you choose this night to reveal yourself to me?”

Sherlock’s kisses behind his ear were heavenly, but they were not an answer.

“Has this all been a test of my faith?”

“I’ve never tested anyone’s faith,” Sherlock said between kisses. “I don’t have to.” He rolled John a quarter turn and into his arms, wrapping one leg around John’s hips for good measure. “How do you feel right now?”

“Incredible.”

“Tell me more.”

“It feels like…like I’m a clear vessel being filled with light. It’s filling me and bursting forth, both at once.”

Sherlock gave a little laugh. “And that’s just what it feels like when I hold you in my arms. Can you imagine how glorious it’s going to feel when I’m inside you?”

John pulled away, momentarily sobered, and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. But Sherlock saw no objection. Instead, John whispered. “Yes. Yes, now that I think of it. I want you inside me. Um, how are you going to get inside me?”

“I believe the appropriate colloquial term is ‘the old-fashioned way.’”

Suddenly John’s heart was racing, though his head was still foggy. Holding it up seemed an effort, so he let it drop back down onto the pillow, let Sherlock continue tugging him this way and that, in order to explore his body further.

When John felt Sherlock’s fingers against his hole, he breathed out through his nose and nodded. Not needing John’s permission anyway, Sherlock pushed. With his long fingers, he massaged John’s inner walls, and John’s body did little to resist the intrusion. Only, even in his near-trance, John was self-conscious about being made so wet and open. And eager. Yes, he wanted it.

Then the fingers were gone. Sherlock loomed over him, oiling his own cock, displaying it in its fully erect state, holding it at the base with both hands like Keb-ki’s lewd fertility idols. Then he covered John’s body with his own, keeping one hand on his cock to aim it and with the other bracing himself.

As astonished as he might have been when he’d first felt Sherlock’s presence in his room, this most recent development seemed unsurprising; it was so good and right and natural to have Sherlock inside him. Once it happened, he was no longer confused; this was just the logical culmination of a lifetime of wanting to join with, to be _consumed_ by, his god.

With Sherlock whispering in his ear, John knew now how poorly he had been pronouncing the ancient chants his whole life. Not that that could be helped, as he could only guess at the sounds from the old books. Still, he felt deeply ashamed that he had venerated Sherlock in such an unworthy manner. His embarrassment manifested as a shuddering groan.

“Is it too intense?” Sherlock asked coolly in plain English, without missing a stroke.

“No,” John said. “Don’t stop.” John could feel waves of energy radiating from him, energy that could only be provided by a divine force. He felt it all around him and deep inside, and the only thing that kept him from being paralysed by his awe was his complete trust in Sherlock. His faith. He understood that this physical act was sustaining the amazing energy, and he was not willing to give it up. Sherlock thrust with increased intensity, and continued to chant.

A sensation of light and heat that should have been unbearable engulfed John, and he could no longer be certain that he was still in his room. His consciousness, his very soul, was propelled from his body, shooting towards the primordial void, and the further away he traveled, the faster he accelerated.

But he could still sense his physical form, somewhere far-off, trembling violently in Sherlock’s arms. He strained to hear his own voice, to hear himself screaming that he didn’t want to die.

Distantly, he heard Sherlock’s soothing, authoritative baritone: “It’s alright, John. Stop, stop fighting it. You must let it take you.”

And then there was a moment of stillness. He was floating now, just floating in a starlit sky. Gradually, as his vision focused, he found that the starlight was actually the pinpricks of sultry flame at the tips of his altar candles. He was looking down at himself, limbs splayed, whilst Sherlock thrust into him, slowly, but with metronomic regularity. John’s writhing and pathetic pleas seemed even more ridiculous coming from underneath that pale, solid body, which unlike John’s was neither perspiring nor quaking with the effort of sustaining such powerful and prolonged lovemaking. Sherlock could easily shatter him, mind and body, but was choosing instead to give him a deep pleasure that no mortal could attain unassisted. Perhaps his groans and non-words provided more spiritual nourishment to Sherlock than his carefully-practiced but poorly-pronounced chants.

He watched himself start to shiver and convulse. He wasn’t certain what was going on, except that he found the sight of his own facial contortions unsettling. But when he saw one leg start to kick, the heel digging into the mattress, he understood what was happening: he was about to come. And as soon as he realised that, his vision was obliterated in a burst of white light, and he was no longer watching the orgasm; he was feeling it. Wave after euphoric wave of divine energy washed over him, and he felt, for only those few seconds, as though he were a complete being who understood the most minute, exquisite workings of the universe, and was united with them. All questions answered, all mysteries known, all desires satisfied. It was an ecstasy a thousand times more glorious than the most intense orgasm, and for an instant he merged with Sherlock into a single being of pure, pulsating energy and then became nothingness. At last, John opened his mouth, and produced a flawless vowel tone followed by a perfect glottal stop:

“∆ ∙ ≡ ≈ !”

But as quickly as the feeling of oneness had filled him, it retreated. He clutched at those last few filaments of bliss as they ebbed away, then regained his awareness of the weaknesses of his mortal coil. His legs ached, his throat was sore with screaming. He felt heavy. Moving required so much effort. 

Sherlock’s withdrawal from his body meant the end of his brief assimilation with all of existence. But Sherlock helped him into a comfortable position, got a pillow under his head and his legs straightened out properly. Then he laid himself down alongside John and smoothed the spikes of sweat-drenched hair from his forehead to soothe him. He was chanting something new now, words John could not understand, but which imbued him with a calm acceptance of his inability to hold onto the Infinite.

When John opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was the last little drop of come clinging to the tip of his own cock. Having had a sudden realisation, he found the energy to reach down with one hand and feel where Sherlock had just been. He came away with the tips of his fingers sticky. He looked to Sherlock in a panic. If everything else this evening had been possible…

But Sherlock only chuckled, a low, rumbling, mischievous sound. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t just put a demigod inside you.”

John’s laugh broke the tension in the room, though his face betrayed a hint of disappointment, beneath the relief.  Seeing this, Sherlock put his mouth against John’s ear and whispered portentously, “… _This_ time.”


End file.
